Meet the Pirate Hunters!

Jack Sparrow wanted hidden treasure, rum and women, but the goal of a modern-day Somali pirate is cash—an average ransom of $500,000 to release any ship he and his band manage to capture. If a pirate makes it home alive, he will be greeted as a hero. If he dies trying, he’ll at least have escaped the poverty he came from. This is why pirates are such a vexing foe: They have nothing to lose and everything to gain.

But now these criminals have Rear Admiral Michelle Howard to contend with. The first African American woman to command a U.S. Navy ship, Howard, 49, was appointed to head the Anti-Piracy Task Force just three days before Captain Richard Phillips was captured in the watched-round-the-world incident; she and her 2,000-member crew, including not 10, not 20, but 175 women, stationed off the northeastern coast of Africa, helped free him. Howard says her crew is inspiring: “They make miracles every day.” Glamour talked to five women on the Task Force to find out what it’s like to be a pirate hunter.

“You’ve got to move fast,” says Joan Dostal, 26, a Navy lieutenant, who coordinates communications in an attack. “There’s a 15-minute window to prevent a full-blown hostage crisis.” When a call is received, Marine Corps Captain Monica “Moose” Marusceac, 30, the only active-duty female Harrier jet pilot in the Corps, takes off to survey the scene. (She recorded the images that helped locate the raft where Phillips was being held.) Marine Corps First Lieutenant Katey Geary, 25, and Marine Corps Captain Tara “Wishbone” Russell, 31, hit the skies in helicopters, offering backup to captured ships.

When the surviving Somali involved in Phillips’ capture was brought on board the U.S.S. Boxer, Navy Master at Arms Michelle Bailey, 24, was tasked with building a holding facility for him and ensuring he was treated humanely. “I was surprised that [the surrender] happened so fast,” she says. “We train for hours and hours and hours for the simple possibility.”

It’s a guys’ world, but…

“It’s like having a bunch of brothers,” Russell says about living with a predominantly male crew. “They’ll pick on you, and you pick right back. You’re all doing the same job.”

You have to take advantage of any downtime.

What do these women do for fun? Hit the gym, watch movies and play home spa. (Makeup “melts right off,” Bailey says.) “We tan on deck,” says Dostal. “We’re so close to the equator that we get burned!”

You can’t write home about your job.

The women don’t get to brag to their families about their work—missions are typically classified, and communication with the outside world is often terminated during a crisis. And even if they could call with news, folks might not believe them. “When my mom tells people what I do,” says Russell, “they always ask what I’m really up to.” Marusceac was able to e-mail her husband just before the lockdown in the Phillips rescue: “I just said, ‘Watch CNN—that’s what we’re involved in. Pretty cool, huh?’” Says Geary, “I tell my family I’m going to have great stories for them when I get home.”